


found my thrill

by s_t_c_s



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Cop POV, F/M, POV Jimmy Turner, POV Outsider, but also some Turner/Beth and Turner/Rio Vibes, call forwards?, i mean there's a lil beth/rio given the nature of the conversation, the implication that Jimmy's read Cat's Cradle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:28:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26328685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_t_c_s/pseuds/s_t_c_s
Summary: Turner's POV of the pancake lie
Relationships: Beth Boland & Jim Turner, Beth Boland/Rio
Comments: 36
Kudos: 42





	found my thrill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BourbonOnTheRocks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BourbonOnTheRocks/gifts).



> unsurprisingly, this contains both cop pov and beth talking about getting screwed on the kitchen table
> 
> (there are also v brief mentions of recreational drug use, i guess a sort of bondage mention, some unpleasant imagery, and yea some sexual content)

Once Jimmy closes upon a nugget – be it sizeable cobble; mere fragment; heck, even a solitary _gravillon –_ it’s lifted. Inspected from each angle, close look at underside bundled with. The area it rested before best believe it’s about to be nosed round too.

Cos that attitude? Well, it’s Jimmy distilled. Has been, long as he remembers. Working a problem’s _always_ smelled like his kind of fun.

See, some guys fuck with cable ties to free their desk from mess. Unplaiting the wedged cords of coffee-maker, toaster and microwave (attending to the kink knotted near one plug too) in the otherwise deserted harsh-bright breakroom, Jimmy’s certain he’ll never join their vapid ranks. There’s such simple pleasure to applying logic with deft flicks. Until you source success.

Maybe the fascination started up with tasks similar, he muses, as his assured hands work. It’s easy to recall entire montages. Locked links of multiple necklaces; a skein of wool, end temporarily lost; jumbled ropes of decorations – precious grown-up undertakings, plunked into his arms by his mom or an auntie. Without instructions beyond: fix it, go. That joy at being trusted to work it on out alone.

On balance, he reckons those weren’t the exact origins though. Such activities simply jolted an existing spark within. It’s _him_ at his core, which a fistful have recognised, understood where to direct. A neat, active mind, that has never found much solace in rest. (Well, excepting the brief stint as a freshman when he discovered hangovers, delved across shame.)

Some people have labelled the tendency – him, really – relentless. Meaning: _annoying_. Painted him as marrow-gnawing Rottweiler. So what though, if he’s not to everyone’s taste. That’s fine with him. Jimmy is possessed of no quest to form firm friendship with the whole world.

He is skilled for what he does. And yes, perhaps he’s prideful over it. But the humming motor to ambition’s no bad thing. A man’s got to maintain, keeping an eye on the prize, through clambering his hill. Warmth is required, for fuelling consistent that level of needful commitment. To endure the sacrifice entailed.

Beside, the _right_ people get it. Members of his _karass_ , as it were.

Dougie doesn’t know the ins and outs of how Jimmy’ll tackle each case, no, but he understands the gist. The stance. How sometimes colouring outside the lines is flat-out necessitated. For the greater good. As well as _theirs_. Cos, yeah. Jimmy’s got plans, obviously. At scrambling the ladder, boomslang-speed. Shining his _full_ worth.

He’s well aware his trajectory’s been impressing the right people, past just his direct superiors. That the brass mark him dedicated; _they_ don’t consider ‘relentless’ a dirty word. Oh, maybe they won’t view him more than loyal lieutenant a space yet, one prepared to melt up all his wax (from several sides simultaneously, no doubt) for them. But Jimmy recognises how to remain a rigid, well-braided wick at incurved centre.

His fingertips twitch, even while he smiles down at the tidy handiwork he’s made of the countertop, needling for another distraction. Maybe it’s time for a ‘final’ cup. Or – could be it’s quitting o’clock. Perhaps she isn’t coming, requires the application of still further pressure before taking him seriously enough.

The tip toward Mrs. Boland fell _delightfully_ easy into his lap. And yes, he thinks, absently clacking the hard candy against back teeth, the source of this information isn’t what he’d term the most wholesome. Leslie is, to put it mildly, something of a turd. Apparently one with aspirations of playing cops and robbers, quite possibly unstable. But that’s essentially by the by. Jimmy’s allied with worse for less.

His sweet is practically vacant of flavour now. It’s spent too long being sucked upon, dwindling slow. There’s a packet in the cabinet by his head; easy replenishment is on offer. But it’s the action he enjoys, more than the florid taste. There’s no sense to using up supplies ahead of the need.

She’d been squirrelly, this Mrs. Boland, both times he spoke to her. In the presence of her husband, and without his shade. Maybe she’s not aware Jimmy noticed it, might be unused to having her responses attended to; her man doesn’t exactly impress as the observant type. But Stepford sketchiness wouldn’t necessarily translate to anything relevant right now. He’s focused on breaking _this_ case, not poking at lesser fry. Oh, Jimmy’s seen the seedy underbelly to white picket land, is past naïve over _that_. Has run into a whole host out there: prescription pills; pimpless, primarily, prostitution; pornography production ranging from the shockingly amateur to the really quite advanced.

Suburban problems have a way of sealing themselves inward though. Rarely spill out their box into messy violence and mass ugliness in a manner which requires large amounts of attention. If it’s something of that type, he may not, for now, have a quarrel with her. Well, unless she brings him one.

Yes, the photograph is hardly incriminating. Barely circumstantial. Sure too, Leslie’s possessed of his own agenda – one befuddling and potentially muddled to even Leslie himself. However, there’s no need to throw that oversized baby with its wash-water. The man surely deserves a chance to scrabble through life, same as any taxpayer. Mrs. Boland might have zero connection to this operation Jimmy’s been chasing, that much is plainly possible. It could be a mix-up, or a somehow innocuous tie, he’s aware. The memory of his mother grimly muttering, often, on how everyone’s got a niece echoes; tempering his excitement. But he’s certainly not going to _start_ by assuming the expedition’ll be fruitless.

Once its structure becomes pierced at a point now lacking integrity, the last of the candy is munched apart quickly. It’s always sudden, somehow a surprise, when a final moment strikes, no matter how common the occurrence.

If the Boland lady can lead him to anything about this ‘Rio’ guy, well, Jimmy’s going to push and push and push, till everything useful’s sprung out of her. That cat’s been _extremely_ hard to find much on, beyond a few blurry photographs and a street name; stuff Jimmy’s been musing on a while. Guy looks young, but there must be more substance to the pretty boy than fat lips and skinny hips.

His tongue swipes, clearing sharp sugared fragments from molars. He finds himself contemplating the sludge left in the coffee pot again.

The name is a detail he’s considered, utilising an array of approaches. For what it might hint at. A Brazilian connection maybe, or a watery one. Perhaps it’s a simple diminutive. Could point to a family history of plumbing, even. It’s all worth examination, no matter that others have smirked at his suggestions too often over the years; Jimmy’s learnt to prune them internally, until he’s gathered proof aplenty. People show so much of their hand by revealing what it is that they’re deeply desperate to conceal, he knows that. Once he finds this guy’s identity, he’ll have his history. Will determine what he holds most precious too. And then, well. He is _certain_ he’ll have him…

Upon being alerted to her presence, their impending _tête_ _-à-_ _tête_ , Jimmy quickly prepares himself a replacement candy. Slips his posture more relaxed before entering his office.

She’s in a different outfit now, he notes, one more revealing. Her curves further fostered. While she certainly looks good – almost ethereal – Mrs. Boland somehow seems frayed around her edges. It exhibits like exhaustion (plus possible panic?) though she masks it well.

It’s not long at all before she’s blurting out her affair-explanation.

Jimmy’s tone bends mocking when he throws out suggestions, hopefully snatching them as options from her, as to how she mingled her way into a tryst with an inner-city gangbanger. He knows they’re not so ridiculous as to be implausible, has had PTA mommies wear a wire a time or two after all, but it’s reasonable to assume she lacks access to such wisdom.

And… _Her_? With _him_? That hardly looks likely. Not that Jimmy can’t peg what someone’d find attractive in her. In either of them. But – come on. He can’t exactly see the pairing striking up idle conversation. One’s all skittish politeness, the other nothing but snarling danger. The stench of seafood may as well be clogging his nose.

Hell, is he to believe she got all dolled up in a tasteful black dress, with an almost _vampish_ turn to her warpaint, late at night, simply to clue him in on her supposed extra-marital activities? It seems a little…transparent. Jimmy supposes he can’t assume this mode is all for him. Maybe it’s date night, or she’s off to meet girlfriends. But the entirety smacks of straining too far to convince.

Issue is, the image is already twirling about his mind. Her voluptuous, snowy body – that desperation she’s plying him with tonight in _full_ effect. Wrapped up with this Rio guy, suddenly frenetic as her. An undoubtedly mismatched couple, all clashing, confused strips of limbs. Reminiscent of a ludicrous emblem for an ancient coat of arms.

Though it’s almost sort of…alluring. _Hypnotic_.

It starts to sound more persuasive, the longer she goes. Or maybe it just wants to be. That picture tumbling and turning is not one he’s eager to reject out of hand. By the time she’s detailing the journeying of her panties (navy and silken, at least in his mind’s eye) and the location (did he see a table? He doesn’t press. He should press), it’s become so embedded, via the meshwork melody of her voice, Jimmy almost believes her on principle.

The rendering of stray blueberries crushed to skin strings along a collage of images as he repositions the twosome, mentally. He’s, shit, half-hard. Problematically distracted.

It’s only after he’s warned – or maybe, after all, tested – the lady with some platitude or other, when she insists she’s tougher than she looks, that he snaps from it. Or perhaps it takes a moment longer. For her ass in that sleek dress to disappear entirely, the tap of her heels to move from earshot. After that jar from biting too hard, chipping candy, has struck _and_ started to subside.

Because it’s a titillating picture she’s conjured, he’ll grant her that. There’s surely a market for it. And she was _really_ selling her tale. But desperate people will vow any old thing. The attractiveness of the idea is forming the engine of his potential belief, Jimmy’s quite certain.

He must take a step back.

The woman’s quick on her feet. Adapts truer than a chameleon: a willow bowing its boughs to blasts of wind, remaining unbroken. But her pride leaks. She’s not used to observation, or comprehension. No, not with that sucker she’s married to.

Whether or not her story is true, Mrs. Boland and this gangbanger appear better suited than Jimmy originally thought. She’s clearly got…depths.

That duo are like a set of eyeballs, Jimmy decides, resting in the ridged sockets of the selfsame skull. An illustrative mirage – gruesome, if apt – flashes, unbidden. This bulging pair blinking back at him in hostile tandem. Believing they’re clutching the upper hand; underprepared for his tactics.

It’s possible he’s collected another antagonist worthy of his consideration today. The thrill of that chase for truth, unravelling clues to find her secrets – and what bargaining power that could imbue him with – burns at him. Bolsters.

But those little movies she’s created in his brain – they play and play and _play_. Beth Boland being rammed into, folded over her kitchen island. Then she’s lying half-off it instead. That morphs, till she’s riding the hoodlum there. Both of them drenched in sweat. Her flustered, just like she was here, earlier. And he’s squinting, same as the photographs, but smirking with it – pleased. Pressing a berry near her heavy nipple, watching the squirt of ripe ink. Next, one to her mouth, and she moans, opening for it. For his fingers, which press and press, reshaping her cheek. And they–

_Fuck_. Jimmy left half-hard a ways back.

Well he _could_ deal with the situation here and now. He’s walked in to weirder things in this building. Agents jacking off side by side. That whole situation with the ball gag. And the one with the mountain of cocaine. But. _No_.

He has a good man waiting for him at home. And Jimmy possesses _discipline_.

So he takes a breath. Then another. A few more.

Before too long he’s heading to the elevator, to Dougie. He’ll shake this image, his new obsession. At least till morning. Gaining a clearer head will help. It might be nothing. He might need _sleep_.

Jimmy catches his own lashes murmuring back from the dirty surface of the mirror inside, once he’s pressed the button for the basement. And he can’t help envisioning the phantasm anew, unsettling as it remains – heterochromatic irises essentially sunk into a _memento mori_.

**Author's Note:**

> title is from Blueberry Hill by Fats Domino
> 
> This is for BourbonOnTheRocks, who I'm so sure told me to write this. She has no recollection of it, but seems prepared to take responsibility anyhow!


End file.
